Freefall

by Robert Radcliffe

  ‘Are you my brother?’ she asked.

  *

  He stayed three weeks. He and Susanna walked out often; Theo enjoyed the companionship, the novelty, and the new-found intimacy, but fretted about the commitment. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t get serious,’ he would say, ‘I’m sure to get posted and I’d hate you to worry.’ ‘Who’s worrying?’ she’d reply breezily. They went to the pictures, the river, the dance hall; once or twice they travelled into the West End, wandering the sights arm in arm like tourists. London was emerging from winter at last and the Blitz was largely over, but with the war news gloomy and rationing biting hard, shops were thinly stocked and many cafés and restaurants closed. Londoners themselves, they noticed, seem to go about their business in a mood of grim resignation.

  ‘Look at this.’ Theo picked up a discarded newspaper. ‘We’ve lost Benghazi.’

  ‘Ben who?’

  ‘Benghazi. Libya’s second city. We won it from the Italians last year. Now we’ve lost it again.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Theo studied the paper. ‘To Rommel.’

  ‘Who’s Rommel?’

  Days passed. The boarding house was busy and he soon found himself reprising his juvenile role as Eleni’s home-help: serving breakfast, running to the shops, coaxing wet laundry through the mangle in the yard. Meanwhile Carla was equally busy managing Partito Popolare Sudtirolese. Most days she went out to ‘meetings’; most evenings were spent writing letters, stuffing envelopes or lobbying contacts on Eleni’s telephone. When she did find time for Theo they spoke mostly of South Tyrolean matters, local gossip or the war. Once she quizzed him about his Italian activities following the aqueduct mission, Operation Colossus, but, instinctively reticent, and mindful of Grant’s warnings about secrecy, he dissembled. ‘Just lying low mostly.’ Similarly he decided not to broach the subject of Victor with her, convincing himself that the matter was best left closed for the moment. He did probe Eleni about it, however. ‘What he was like?’ he ventured casually one evening. ‘You know, in the days when he lived here?’ Eleni’s face hardened. ‘He gone, Teo, he never no bloody good, an’ you bes’ forget him. For your sake an’ your mother.’

  Finally one day he returned from an errand to find a telegram on the hall table. URGENT TO PTE TV TRICKEY STOP REPORT IMMEDIATE 2 PARA HQ HARDWICK HALL MANSFIELD STOP SIGNED GOFTON-SALMOND LT/COL 2BN STOP. A thrill of expectancy ran through him as he read and reread the message. It could mean only one thing, and a surreptitious phone call to the adjutant at Hardwick confirmed it. ‘It’s an op, Trickey, hush-hush and urgent, so get your arse back here at the double!’ Scrawling notes to Carla and Susanna, he left that afternoon, and by dusk was home with the Paras.

  The op, not urgent it transpired, nor very hush-hush, was a demonstration jump for the King and Queen, arranged at an RAF aerodrome in Yorkshire. His Majesty had specifically expressed interest in seeing men from the Bruneval raid, so urgent messages had gone out to C Company, most of whom were still living it up in Scotland. Few received the summons in time so A Company had to make up the numbers. The day of the drop dawned overcast and blustery. Six sticks were to jump from the Whitleys while John Frost would provide commentary for the royals on the ground. The appointed hour arrived and the bombers duly droned overhead and commenced circling, but an hour later they were still circling with the monarch yet to appear. Finally the cortège pulled up and with fuel running low the Whitleys were hastily signalled to commence their run. At that moment the King decided to wander indoors and shake hands with office staff; by the time he emerged ten minutes later all but the final stick were already on the ground. Watching the last few men sink to earth he declared the enterprise remarkable, climbed back into his car and was driven off.

  With only a short period of leave remaining, and encouraged by Frost, who hinted at impending deployment, Theo stayed on at Hardwick Hall. Sure enough in May the entire 1st Parachute Brigade decamped to Salisbury Plain where for the first time in its history all three battalions were to train together. 2nd Battalion was billeted at Bulford, with Frost promoted to second-in-command under Colonel Gofton-Salmond. His friend Philip Teichman, still technically senior, might have expected this promotion but was left in charge of B Company, while Frost’s Scottish C Company was given to Bruneval stalwart John Ross, and A Company to East Surrey regular Dick Ashford. Theo went to Frost’s HQ Company as runner and interpreter.

  Brigadier Gale remained in overall charge of the three battalions and by midsummer training was in full swing, with special emphasis on physical fitness and stamina. Every man in the brigade, he decreed, must be able to march a minimum fifty miles in twenty-four hours – with full packs. Little did he know how valuable this endurance training, soon a hallmark of the regiment, would become in forthcoming months. Competition between battalions was fierce and some epic marches were recorded. On one occasion 2nd Battalion was sent to Exmoor on manoeuvres. Colonel Gofton-Salmond was ill so Frost led it. Having successfully completed the exercise he then marched it back to Bulford in full battalion order, a distance of some eighty miles. Not to be outdone, 1st Battalion then night marched seventy miles to Oxford and back.

  Apart from field training, the Paras once again took to the air, this time finally in what would become their operational workhorse: the Douglas DC3 Dakota. These American-built cargo aeroplanes were newly arrived in Britain and few in number, thus eagerly anticipated by the waiting Paras. But when they finally got to clamber over them for themselves their reactions were mixed. Spacious certainly, big and powerful, with a cabin wide enough to carry twenty jumpers instead of the Whitley’s ten, the ‘Dak’ also had a huge removable side door enabling a swift and safe exit compared to plummeting down the Whitley’s hated ‘tube’. But unlike the Whitley the Dakota was not armed at all, nor did it carry armour plating as protection against gunfire and flak. Basically a civilian cargo plane, it was also mostly flown by American civilian pilots, who had little training in combat flying, modest experience flying in cloud and none at all flying at night. And their preferred technique for dropping parachutists also raised eyebrows. This entailed running in at top speed and ground level to avoid flak, followed by a violent pull up to seven hundred feet, cutting the engines and throwing out the jumpers, before diving to the ground once more to escape. Notwithstanding these antics and the Dak’s military shortcomings, men and machines gradually bonded.

  Summer waned, the Wiltshire crops were harvested, the men trained, the war ground on. Then the rumour started. 1st Para Brigade was going into action. More small raids like the one to Bruneval, someone said. No, a battalion was going to Malta; then it was a different one going to Greece, then Norway, then suddenly everyone was destined for Burma. As one of HQ Company’s runners, Theo theoretically had better access to ‘gen’ than most, but he learned nothing and even Frost didn’t seem to know. Then one day in September his boss took him aside.

  ‘It’s embarkation orders, Trickey, and soon.’

  ‘Embarkation for where, sir?’

  ‘Can’t say. Take a few days’ leave, report back in a week.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but I don’t really need—’

  ‘Take it. Report to Baker Street while you’re there. Be back in a week.’

  He went, passing restless days at the boarding house, where Eleni was tearful, Carla distracted and Susanna stoic. ‘It’ll be fine, Theo,’ she said, patting his hand. ‘Don’t worry about me, write when you can but don’t if you can’t.’ On their last evening together they went to the bench by the Thames where they’d first sat when he returned from France two years earlier. There they talked and kissed and held each other, watching the passing river traffic until dawn. Later that day he reported to Captain Grant at Baker Street, and finally learned where the Paras were destined.

  ‘Tunisia, Theo, and your old friend Erwin Rommel.’

  ‘But I thought he was—’

  ‘In Libya, yes he is, hundreds of miles to the east. But the point is we’re going t
o squeeze him and his blasted Afrika Korps to buggery. He’s already got 8th Army in front of him in Egypt; we’re going to land another army behind him in Tunisia.’

  ‘I see. Who is?’

  ‘Us, the Yanks – God knows, even the bloody French if they can organize themselves. It’ll doubtless be a bugger’s muddle to begin with, cock-ups galore, everyone at sixes and sevens.’ He lit another cigarette, glancing at Theo. ‘Intelligence will be a nightmare.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Theo looked around. Grant had moved to a new office, in another building near the old one; this one was bigger, although just as cluttered. Special Operations Executive, as it was now known, was evidently growing. Grant soon confirmed it.

  ‘We’ve already got a section running in Cairo, and they’ll be starting one up in Algiers, which is where you’ll report. If required, that is. Algiers office code name is Massingham, and your contact there’ – he shuffled papers – ‘is a Major Yale, like the key. Think you can remember that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Don’t write it down, and don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.’

  ‘I won’t. Um, when do we go? 1st Para Brigade, I mean.’

  ‘Soon. The next few weeks. Some of you by air, the rest by sea.’ He ground out his cigarette and immediately reached for another. His uniform tie was loose, as usual, but his eyes, less usually, seemed round with worry. ‘Listen, Theo. It’s going to be messy out there. Supplies, organization, logistics, the whole command structure: it’ll be a lash-up, at least at first. As will be the way troops like you parachute lads get deployed. And Rommel’s no fool, we both know that. He’ll hit back hard, and it’ll get bloody. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So just take care of yourself.’

  *

  The house was identical to all the others, one of dozens in a scruffy-looking terrace stretching a mile in either direction. Somewhere in the East End, it was, not far from London’s docklands; rubble piles, fenced-off craters and buildings shrouded in scaffolding showed it had suffered badly in the Blitz. Checking the address Grant had supplied him, he set off along the numbers, until he came to the door and knocked.

  ‘And what the bloody hell do you want!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Trickey, it’s me, um, Theo. Trickey, that is. As well.’

  ‘I know who you are, I asked what you want!’

  ‘Nothing. Well...’ He produced a crumpled package. ‘I brought you some tea, you see, and some biscuits. Susanna made them. And also something, a toy – a doll actually – it’s nothing really, for your daughter.’

  As if by summons, Nancy appeared from behind her mother. She was wearing the same dress and shoes as in March, though her hair was longer and her skin less pale. Something green, like crayon, was smeared across one cheek.

  She smiled. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, Nancy. I, um, I’ve brought you something.’ He glanced at Violet, who rolled her eyes; then he stooped, opening the package to reveal a doll dressed in Tyrolean folk costume: white blouse, red waistcoat and skirt, hair braided in plaits. ‘Do you like her?’

  ‘Ooh!’ Nancy’s eyes widened. ‘Why’s her mouth round?’

  ‘Because she’s singing. She’s from South... From the mountains, where I was born. Little girls love to sing there. She’s got blond hair like yours, see?’

  ‘Yes!’ Nancy hugged the doll to her cheek. ‘Thank you.’

  Violet was tapping her foot. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘What? Oh, um, no, that’s all.’

  ‘We’ll take the tea and biscuits thanks.’

  ‘Of course. It must be difficult, what with Vic—’

  ‘We manage.’

  ‘Yes. Well, then...’

  Nancy’s hand reached out. ‘Are you going?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got to.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Well, it’s rather a long way.’

  ‘Are you coming back?’

  But before he could answer, Violet led her back inside, and the last he saw of her was a little wave as the door closed.

  CHAPTER 3

  Despite Padre Pettifer’s best efforts, Christmas 1944 is without doubt the most dismal on record, at least for those remnants of 1st Airborne Division living in Stammlager XIB, Osterheide, Bad Fallingbostel, Lower Saxony, Germany. The only crumb of comfort is it’s just as dismal for folk living outside the camp, for as well as enduring the hardships of war – shortages, sickness, starvation, misery, cold, bereavement and the rest – they also have their enemy to contend with, i.e. getting bombed and being invaded, whereas for us inside the wire, as our guards keep reminding us: ‘For you the war is kaputt.’

  We know Stalag XIB’s address because we’ve been allowed to send out Red Cross cards notifying loved ones of our status and location. Although we’ve had no mail ourselves yet, receiving news of us will come as a relief to our relatives, many of whom, following the chaos of Operation Market Garden three months ago, still have no idea if we’re alive, dead, wounded, in captivity or on the run. It’s also a comfort for us to know we’re putting their minds at rest, particularly at Christmastime when everyone’s thoughts are of family. The process is oddly poignant. One snowy evening we’re huddled in our huts playing draughts or rereading dog-eared paperbacks when the commandant Major Möglich’s men come round with the cards. A flurry of excitement ensues as they’re handed out, everyone talks at once, we medical officers even boldly discuss encoding secret messages in them, but soon the chatter fades to silence as we reflect on the significance of the cards to us individually – and also ponder what to write. In the end I address mine to my parents, dutifully reassuring them I’m in the best of health and heart (no point in saying otherwise), Pip Smith and the others do the same and we all hand them in. Then, because there’s nothing else to do, we gather round the stove, sing a rather lacklustre ‘Silent Night’, chew solemnly on our black bread ‘Christmas cake’, and settle down to await whatever fate has in store for us in 1945.

  There are few signs of obvious change at XIB following my holiday at Stalag 357, but there are some subtle ones. With the exception of serious cases, many of our patients are now back on their feet, which means the workload for us medics is gradually slackening. Many are getting transferred to other camps too, further easing numbers, but the huts are still crowded and unsanitary, resulting in chest and stomach infections, which aren’t helped by the cold, damp and poor diet. Rations of food, heating coal and medical supplies are still short, but a trickle of Red Cross parcels is getting through so we’re able to distribute tea, tobacco and other precious luxuries which the men seize upon like starving waifs. It’s all a far cry from our triumphant jump into Holland, I reflect, watching them trudge round the compound like bent old tramps, shadows of the proud warriors they once were. I can only wonder at the change in them. The change in us all. From heroes to zeros, as someone puts it.

  Nor can I exclude myself from this decline. Healthy enough physically (albeit thinner), this interlude finds me in the lowest of spirits. I’m not sure why. Obviously imprisonment, the camp, the weather and the dismal day-to-day existence here don’t help, but it’s as though, with more time on my hands, my mind is suddenly free to ruminate on what’s happened these last months, and keep ruminating on it over and over until I’m exhausted and close to despair: Arnhem, the killing and maiming, the Schoonoord, the horror of the shelling, the blood-spattered storeroom, Apeldoorn, the train, poor Cliff Poutney. And other images like the dreadful internment camp Inge Brandt showed me, Private Jenkins’s anguished face, the guard’s rifle at my head, and the chilling encounter with the Gestapo at Fallingbostel Station. And then my ridiculous escape attempt, which weighs heaviest of all. Ill considered and unrealistic perhaps, I nevertheless attached great significance to it, because it signalled a vital change in my mind-set, like throwing a switch from passive to active, from victim to protagonist, from a leaf adrift in a stream to master of my own destiny. Now it’s gone and I�
��m drifting again, feeling beaten and worthless.

  And it’s getting me down – I know enough psychology to recognize the symptoms. I keep myself apart, socialize less, show little interest in my work or in news and gossip, or eating the revolting slop they call food here. I don’t bother keeping up appearances, my clothes are dirty, my hair too long and I’ve stopped shaving. Worst of all I don’t sleep, just pass my nights staring up at the hut’s mildewed ceiling, my mind plodding through the darkness like a slow goods train, while Pip and the others snore on like babies.

  ‘OK, Dan?’ Pip enquires one day, perceptive as ever. ‘You seem a little sotto voce these days.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ We’re outside, walking the wire, which is camp slang for traipsing round the perimeter. I’ve been back here a month. The weather’s grey and oppressive; an icy wind cuts through my French greatcoat. ‘It’s just...’

  ‘This place, eh?’

  ‘Yes. Among other things. This whole existence really. It’s so... debasing. So inhuman. It’s getting to me rather.’

  ‘Write it down.’

  ‘Write what down?’

  ‘All of it. Like a memoir or something. Call it occupational therapy. It may be a debasing existence, but it’s a unique one. So record it. Your thoughts, feelings, impressions, the whole experience. The people too.’

  ‘It’ll make pretty tedious reading.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, it’s just therapy. Anyway, it won’t be for long, will it?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Spring!’ He gestures at the sky.

  ‘But it’s December.’

  ‘A new year, new offensive, a final push, a few weeks and it’ll all be over.’

  ‘You really think Jerry will give up that easily?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘That’s not my reading, having seen them in action.’

  ‘No, but thinking negatively gets you nowhere.’ He nudges me. ‘As a doctor you should know that.’